


Trifecta

by SolAnise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27073816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolAnise/pseuds/SolAnise
Summary: Major AU, very long, very slow burn HP/TMR.The fragment of Voldemort's soul embedded deep within Harry Potter does not sleep.  He survives, lingering on the edges of the child's mind, and as Harry grows and changes, so does he.  The wraith of a man who accompanies Harry to Hogwarts bears no resemblance to the Dark Lord he once was."Why?" Harry asked, suspended somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He didn't bother expanding on the murmured question. There was no need. The hand carding through his hair continued its tender work, fingernails scratching light patterns on his scalp. A reassuring hum was his only answer, but the connection between them pulsed with a quiet apology and something akin to regret. "It was just a journal," Harry slurred, his eyes fluttering shut again. No, he admitted, if only to himself, it was more than that.  It washisjournal.The hand on his head stilled. "It was yours," Marvolo stated, speaking at last in a quiet hiss. His voice was high pitched and cold, but gentled with patient affection. "They had no right."
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 22
Kudos: 201





	Trifecta

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to send a huge thank you to my beta, TheLadyGia, who has been an absolute inspiration in all ways.
> 
> This fic will be long. The chapter estimate might be a bit over, but I'll edit it as I go along. Similarly, I will be updating both the tags and the rating (we will be ending up E eventually) as the story grows and demands it.
> 
> This is my first time writing anything in over a decade. Please be patient with me as I work off the dust. I promise you now, that should I ever abandon this, I will at the very least leave you my plot notes (which are detailed and complete).

Harry's fingers combed gently through the dry earth, loosening the roots of the weed he was attempting to dislodge. "Nettles," he muttered quietly to himself. "Lessee. Useful for potions that treat bad dreams, heartache and boils. Associated with images of lancing and draining bad things away so good ones can replace them. Er. Best harvested under…" He scrunched his face up, thinking. "A waxing new moon?" A pulse of approval thrummed in the back of his mind. Harry grinned and continued. 

"Nettles aren’t magical plants, but you can increase their potency by growing them in a magically saturated place." He finished confidently, tossing the uprooted weed over his shoulder and shuffling further down the row of evenly spaced flowers. Despite the self-assurance in his tone, Harry kept his volume low, hushed voice traveling no further than the front garden where he spent his mornings toiling over his aunt’s prized plants. As the early July sun beat down on his curly head and warmed his bowed back, Harry continued his recitations and resumed his work.

"Gurdyroots are good for breaking attachments. They are often used in potions that act as solvents or that help detangle, stuff like, er, hair or yarn I guess. Oh, and it's good for reversing love potions!" Harry added triumphantly, proud of himself for remembering that bit. It hadn’t been directly mentioned in the book about magical plants he had discovered, but someone had included a note on the bottom of the page about antidotes that used gurdyroots. "Y'can also brew a potion with them that strips other ingredients of their magical essence, if you need to distill another element down or something. Best gathered in the fall, no specific time of day. They are a magical plant and prefer sunny places with sandy soil."

Reaching the end of the flowerbed, Harry sat up and wiped the sweat off his face with a baggy sleeve. He pushed his battered glasses back up his nose with the back of one hand and looked around. The garden chores were finished, and Aunt Petunia hadn't yet thought to assign him anything further for the day. This was his chance to escape.

Harry gathered up the pulled weeds with both hands and trotted off to the backyard, keeping a watchful eye on the open windows of the house beside him. Easing the garden gate open slowly so it wouldn't creak, Harry dumped his armload of plants into the compost bin and grabbed his school backpack from where he'd stashed it beside the fence earlier that morning. Swinging it over one shoulder and closing the gate behind him, Harry cut across the front yard and set off down the street at a brisk walk. He was careful not to look back towards the house. The key to this trick, he had found, was pretending to be a normal kid, doing normal things. Nobody glanced twice at a child wandering down a suburban street as long as the kid didn't look lost. 

He waited until he had turned the corner at the end of Privet Drive before breaking into a sprint. Harry had run this route countless times and knew that he could make it in 15 minutes if he took the shortcut through the alley that avoided the park. Cutting through the park was technically faster, but Dudley liked to hang out there with his friends. Potentially getting caught by that gang wasn't worth the possibility of saving a few minutes.

The summer was always a struggle, one long drawn out game of hiding better than his cousin could seek. Dudley wasn't as much trouble during the school year; Harry had worked out a deal in kindergarten that benefited them both. It went as follows: Dudley would leave Harry (mostly) alone, and Harry would do all of the homework. As long as Harry made sure Dudley got better grades than he did, the Dursleys didn't pay attention to the papers Harry brought home or whose work he was doing.

If anything, his aunt and uncle took Harry doing extra homework when Dudley was 'already finished' as further proof of his awful nature and their son's perfection. Unfortunately, during the long summer vacation, there wasn't a lot he could use to bribe or distract Dudley. When his cousin got bored, Harry paid the price. It was best to keep a low profile until September.

His sneakers pounded on the pavement as his legs pumped, loosening up with every bounding step he took. It felt good to move his cramping muscles after spending so long hunched over gardening, and Harry reveled in the freedom of it. He could go where he wished and do what he wanted without worrying about the distrusting eyes of his relatives. For a few hours, Harry could hide in the air-conditioned library and bury himself within his books. 

The librarians were used to him coming in alone and never said anything about the lack of an adult. As far as Harry could tell, his Aunt and Uncle didn't know where he vanished when he made his escapes, and Dudley’s gang never bothered with the library. Harry wasn't entirely sure they even knew where it was… or how to read.

Harry was unable to suppress the grin that curled across his face at that thought. Picking up his pace, he ignored the way his stained and tattered knapsack bounced heavily against his back. As long as Harry returned before it was time for him to cook dinner, nobody would care or think to miss him.

\--

The library closest to Privet Drive was housed in an older building constructed out of thick, brown brick and partially covered in vines. It was squat and ugly in the way that certain institutions that will stand forever tend to be, and it lurked in the perpetual shade of several large oaks. Walking inside, Harry was immediately assaulted by the smell of old books. The sounds of linoleum squeaking beneath his shoes and the harsh buzzing of the flickering yellow fluorescent lights soothed him after his run. Harry loved it unconditionally. 

Resettling his backpack more comfortably on his shoulders, Harry let out a sigh of relief as cool air washed over him. He smiled shyly at the librarian standing behind the front desk and attempted to think well-groomed thoughts. This was particularly difficult as his threadbare hand-me-down cotton t-shirt draped off his bony shoulders like a tablecloth. It was patchy with sweat and mottled with old stains along with newer streaks of green and brown from gardening. The baggy shorts he wore weren't much better, although at least they were hidden by the oversized shirt. Harry nervously attempted to flatten his mass of tangled, curly hair.

Ducking his head politely, he walked by the front desk and picked up his pace, keeping his eyes focused on the entrance to the children's section. As he passed through the door, Harry made a sharp left, diving between the shelves full of chapter books for early readers then continuing towards the back wall. Slipping through the secondary door hidden there into the adult's section, Harry wondered idly if anyone would care if he marched directly back here one day. So far, it hadn't seemed worth the risk. Adults taking notice of him rarely ended well.

Harry navigated his way through the close aisles with familiarity, making his way to the squidgy chair he had claimed as his own. Harry was pretty sure that it had been wedged into its little dead-end alcove filled with nothing, but dry, scientific treatises by someone else who was looking for a hideout. He had never found signs of the original owner using it, so Harry figured they were long gone. 

The best thing about his secret spot was that if he set his backpack up against the wall and tucked his legs up underneath him, he was invisible to anyone casually strolling by. They'd need to actually walk down the aisle to spot him. As he retrieved the book he had hidden on a nearby shelf at the end of his last visit, Harry felt himself relax.

This dilapidated old library was home in a way even his cupboard failed to be. Harry buried himself in his book and didn't resurface again for hours.

The sun was low in the hazy summer sky when he made his way back up Privet Drive, but the heat of the day had yet to abate. Harry could feel it radiating up from the cracked sidewalk, scorching the bottom of his feet through the worn rubber of his trainers. Uncle Vernon's car wasn't parked in the driveway yet--a good sign--, and he didn't see anyone moving around downstairs through the windows. Cracking open the door of the Dursley house, Harry pressed his ear against the gap and listened intently. Somewhere upstairs he could hear his Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice complaining, probably gossiping to some neighbor on the phone again, but the rest of the house was silent. The lack of a blaring telly meant Dudley was probably still out. Good enough.

Slipping through the door, Harry eased it shut behind him then removed his shoes and tossed them in his cupboard along with his bag as he tiptoed by the living room on socked feet. If Harry was already in the kitchen cooking when his Aunt realized he was home she'd be less likely to complain about his absence, assuming she had noticed at all. As Harry reached the kitchen he glanced to his left, intent on checking the clock on the wall. He then whipped his head back around in a double-take as he spotted Dudley sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling ice cream directly from the carton into his open mouth, his chins wobbling with every bite.

Harry mouthed a curse he wasn't supposed to know, sliding to a stop. His cousin looked up from his ice cream and his small, piggy eyes took on a malevolent gleam. "Where've 'ou been," he sneered thickly through a mouthful of fudge ripple, gesturing with the dripping spoon.

"Out," Harry replied after a short pause. "I was returning a gardening tool to Mrs. Figg. She let me borrow a spade the last time I was over," he improvised, stepping forward into the kitchen proper. Dudley might be annoying, but he usually didn't try to push Harry around when he was cooking. Dudley was never one to risk missing a meal. Bending over to grab a saucepan out of the bottom cupboard, Harry made sure to rattle the pans as he pulled them out, the better for his Aunt to hear upstairs. Sounding busy was as important as looking miserable in the Dursley household.

"Yeah?" Dudley's chair creaked in relief as the boy lumbered to his feet, dropping his spoon to clatter wetly on the table. Harry bit back a sigh -- he'd have to clean that now. "Then why'd your door open?" Despite his best efforts, Harry felt his shoulders stiffen.

"Put my shoes away." Harry kept his tone nonchalant and disinterested. He set the saucepan on the stovetop and went to lug out the large pot for boiling water. Spaghetti was easy, plus it was fun to make his Aunt Petunia come down to help. Try as he might, Harry couldn't drain the water by himself yet; not that he was trying all that hard, he thought, repressing a smirk. He'd take whatever advantages he could get out of being small and underfed.

"I think you're lying," Dudley said behind him, a malicious glee coloring his words. "I bet you've been nicking stuff. The last time I went to the corner shop the old man yelled about kids stealing stuff, and I _know_ it's you." One pudgy finger jabbed Harry in the back heavily, making him stagger forward. Harry didn't resist the urge to roll his eyes, knowing Dudley couldn't see his face at the moment. Of course _Harry_ wasn't the one stealing. None of the local shop owners would even let him through the door thanks to his Aunt and Uncle making him out to be a delinquent. Besides, Harry knew the thief was Piers Polkiss, Dudley's friend. Harry had heard the rat-faced boy bragging about it last month before school let out.

"I didn't go to the shop," Harry reiterated, patience fraying as he avoided his cousin's prodding hands. "And I didn't steal anything. Leave me alone, I have to get dinner started." He punctuated this statement by dropping the pot on the counter with a loud clang. When the floor creaked a moment later as Dudley waddled into the hallway, Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

"S’not nice to not share," his cousin muttered, without any consideration of the irony in that outrageous statement. Harry stared at the kitchen wallpaper, counting backwards from ten in an effort to get control of his rising temper. Smart-aleck answers weren't worth the trouble if he didn't have the space to sprint away after he gave them. Before he could get past seven, however, Harry heard the distinctive sound of his cupboard door opening. 

"Oi," Harry demanded sharply. "What are you doing?" Dudley didn't reply. Harry felt a hot knot of atypical anger throb behind his breastbone as a flush chased its way across his face and scorched the tips of his ears. Leaving the pot where it sat, Harry whirled around and stormed into the hallway. Dudley was bent over, half-hidden behind the open cupboard door with his grubby, chocolate-stained hands rooting around in Harry's tatty school bag. Harry's scar prickled, pounding in time with his heartbeat.

"That's not yours!" He knew he should be quieter. He knew it, but couldn’t keep the words inside. Harry could feel the sudden silence of the house press down on him as upstairs Aunt Petunia abruptly stopped talking. "Leave off!" Harry continued, against his better judgment.

"What's this," sniggered Dudley suddenly, yanking a shabby black and white notebook out of Harry's bag and straightening up. "A diary? What are you, a girl?" Harry couldn't stop himself. He grabbed for his journal, but missed as Dudley stepped back, holding the book mockingly over his head. "It is, isn't it?! Let's see what sort of things a nancy boy writes about," he sneered.

"Give it back!" Harry was truly shouting now, fists balled up at his sides. The gnarled pressure of something throbbing in his chest was growing stronger with each passing moment. Harry knew arguing with Dudley was a terrible idea, knew that he should walk away and go back to the kitchen. He could hear his Aunt's sharp footsteps and the rattle of her bedroom door as she stepped out into the upstairs hallway. He _knew_ this wouldn't end well and yet, Harry felt helpless, unable to stop. He jumped up to snatch his notebook back, only to be thrown against the wall when his cousin shoved him away as hard as he could with his free hand.

Dudley thumbed through the dogeared pages, opening the book to a random point in the middle. Scanning through the revealed text, his face screwed up in confusion and he began to shake his head, chins wobbling. "What are these scribbles?" His high pitched voice trembled as he looked back up at Harry, fear in his watery blue eyes. 

"Why are they… are they _moving_?” Dudley’s voice echoed, growing louder. Too loud. “Are you doing more freak things? Mum and Dad say you're not allowed to do those!"

Dudley turned the pages roughly, ripping several in the process. Watching his cousin manhandle his work, Harry snapped and lunged forward. His fingertips snagged on the edge of the notebook even as his cousin stumbled back. It wasn't much leverage, but it was enough. Harry’s hand tightened in a vise grip on the cover, and he yanked. The journal came free with a harsh jerk and a sound like tearing cloth. Loose pages scattered across the floor between them. 

Harry felt his heart stop. The pulsating anger that had been driving him receded to be replaced by dawning horror. 

As if through a veil, he could hear Dudley yelling as Aunt Petunia raced down the stairs, screeching at the top of her lungs. Harry only felt numb. He clutched the remains of his battered, broken notebook to his chest as more torn paper drifted to the ground.

He didn't respond when his Aunt shoved him aside to wrap herself around a wailing Dudley and demanded answers. He couldn't work up the energy to care when she grabbed at his arm, only to drop it with a startled hiss as if his skin had burned her. He didn't notice the hint of terror in her eyes or the snarl in her words as she shoved him into the cupboard and told him he'd be lucky to be let out in a week.

All Harry could see was the pages upon pages of sinuously curved letters staring up at him in silent accusation. Years of work. Destroyed. In the darkness of his cupboard, Harry Potter wept. 

Hours later, Harry listened to the noise of the house settling around him from inside his cupboard. Gingerly, he raised one hand and tested the skin under his eyes. It was sore and tender to the touch. Unsurprising, considering he hadn't cried like that in years. Why now, Harry wondered, had he lost control? He was so close, _so close_ to leaving this place. Harry rolled his head restlessly from side to side, trying to get comfortable. The narrow camping cot he slept on creaked as he flipped over onto his stomach, pillowing his chin in his hands. His back twinged at the motion, half-healed welts pulling tightly as he resettled himself.

It was just a notebook, Harry told himself firmly. Yes, it was something tangible that was his and no one else’s, full of Harry’s notes and thoughts and every scrap of information about the magical world he had scrounged over the years. Even if they were _his_ words, they were still just…words and paper. Harry unclenched his fists. He hadn't noticed himself tensing them in the first place.

When his Aunt Petunia had thrown him in here, still clutching the torn book and a loose handful of papers, he had thought, maybe, maybe, his imprisonment would be the end of it. It wouldn't have been the first time he was locked in his cupboard for a week, denied meals and only let out to use the bathroom once a day. It was never pleasant, but Harry had a stash of food hidden under an old cardboard box against the back wall, an eclectic assortment of dusty, dented cans and stale packages that would be enough to see him through if he was cautious. Water was a bigger issue, but he could drink when he was let out to use the bathroom, and his Aunt would normally toss a bottle of water in once a day even if she wouldn't feed him. 

It was--Harry wouldn't lie to himself, here in the privacy of his own mind. It was hellishly miserable, but it was survivable. 

When the claustrophobia pressed in on him, Harry could meditate or practice his magic until exhaustion forced him unconscious. Being locked away was even, in some ways, a relief. In the quiet darkness of his cupboard, there was no one to bother him, no one to hurt him, no one to fear. As punishments went, there were worse ones.

Harry rolled his shoulders again, testing his range of motion. He hissed when he stretched just a little too far and the damp cotton of his shirt pulled at a welt. Worse punishments, indeed. The Dursley's rarely relied on physical violence drive home their contempt of Harry, but apparently, his 'attack' on Dudley had ‘gone too far.’ 

When his Uncle had returned home after the incident, Harry had thought little of it, sprawled out on his cot and drifting through exhaustion after crying himself hoarse. The door of his cupboard banging open had shaken him awake. Harry jolting from his trance-like stupor at the furious stomping and spit-flecked roaring of his Uncle as the man dragged him into the blinding light of the hallway. The storm of accusations, bile and pain that had followed formed a memory that still made Harry flinch hours later. 

It had all been unexpected and overwhelming. Harry hadn't even thought to fight, not at first and not after when his Uncle had taken the remains of his notebook and burned it in the fireplace while Harry remained curled up in a ball on the floor where he had left him.

Freak. Faggot. Worthless. 

Bitter, ugly words and a boot in his stomach when he didn't get up fast enough. 

Harry closed his eyes and attempted to slow his rapid breathing. He didn't want to think about that anymore. In, out, in, out, Harry counted each slow inhale and each lingering exhale. Harry focused on relaxing one muscle at a time until, at last, he began to drift off.

It was just him, the darkness and… The cot shifted slightly as if displaced by a settling weight. Cool fingers brushed through his sweaty, matted hair and Harry opened his eyes a slit, pushing into the gentle pressure. It was just him, the darkness and Marvolo.

Marvolo, his only friend, invisible and usually intangible and yet, somehow, always there as a thrumming, reassuring presence in the back of his mind. Harry knew his shadow by soft hands on his wounds in the dark and gentle, sibilant words hissed quietly in Harry’s ears as the child fell into sleep. By the quiet thump of a book on herblore pulled off a shelf in an old woman's home, revealing a wider world. By the half-remembered dreams and reassurances that promised there would be something after, something better than what he currently had.

Marvolo, who was all of that as well as the source of the hatred that had spun a small conflict into a conflagration. "Why?" Harry asked, suspended somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He didn't bother expanding on the murmured question. There was no need. The hand carding through his hair continued its tender work, fingernails scratching light patterns on his scalp. A reassuring hum was his only answer, but the connection between them pulsed with a quiet apology and something akin to regret. "It was just a journal," Harry slurred, his eyes fluttering shut again. No, he admitted, if only to himself, it was more than that. It was _his_ journal.

The hand on his head stilled. " _It was yours_ ," Marvolo concurred, speaking at last in a quiet hiss. His voice was high pitched and cold, but gentled with patient affection. " _They had no right_."

Harry couldn't work up the energy to shake his head. "They didn't," he agreed sluggishly, fighting against the tide of exhaustion building behind his eyelids. "But that didn't matter. 'sides, Hogwarts…" He trailed off, losing track. Harry struggled to think, wanting to finish his sentence before true sleep claimed him. "'ogwarts will have more. And I c'n write 'nother. " Success. Harry relaxed and let the current take him. As if from a great distance, he heard Marvolo say, " _You'll get your Hogwarts letter soon, Harry. You'll be happy there._ " The hand in his hair began to stroke again, soothing, calming, gentling.

" _I was._ "

\--

The days that followed passed slowly. Locked in the cupboard, Harry spent most of his time sleeping. Unconsciousness made it easier to power through the lingering pain and soreness of his body and ignore the clawing hunger in his belly. He rationed out his food carefully; it was never quite enough, but he had to make it last. His stash took ages for him to replenish, lifting cans from the back of the pantry only when they had been pushed to the back. 

Marvolo had taught him half a dozen tricks for filching food-- never grab the last of anything, never touch someone's favorite food or any food they might be counting, always grab the cans near the back of the shelf and shuffle what remains to hide your tracks. When Harry made dinner, he would be able to sneak a piece of fruit or a vegetable into the bag of scraps destined for the composter, could superstitiously gnaw on the trimmings of whatever he was preparing. The heel from a loaf of bread, a slice of cheese, a spoonful of sauce to 'test' the flavor, it all added up to just enough. Trapped in the cupboard, Harry had only what he'd already squirreled away.

I’ll be fine, he told himself, carefully spooning another bite of cold soup out of the can. They couldn't keep him locked in here forever. The Dursleys were, at their hearts, lazy. Harry knew that eventually, no matter how they felt about it, they'd let him out so they wouldn't have to do their own chores. Harry was useful, had _made_ himself useful. They'd remember that.

In the meantime, when he wasn't sleeping, Harry practiced his magic. Touching his core was effortless after years of Marvolo's guidance, an easy sort of twist in and then through. Magic welled up inside him like cool water, slid across the fingers of his mental hands like silk. It was a living thing, electric and exhilarating and inextricably part of him. Harry conjured small fairy lights and twirled them around in swirling, chaotic patterns. He floated small objects, making damaged plastic army men cavort from one side of the cupboard to the other, then summoned them back to him with a snap. When the cramped, muggy confines of the cupboard began to choke him, he even managed to conjure up a weak trickle of cold air. Although he couldn't keep that up for more than a few minutes, and it always left him trembling and exhausted afterwards.

As his days in the cupboard stretched on, Harry closed his eyes and told himself stories, struggling to remember the words of his favorite books. He ran through his list of known magical plants and tried to picture the constellations twinkling in the inky sky, naming the ones he could and sharing their histories with Marvolo is a quiet whisper. Once, he conjured hundreds of tiny, dim lights, mere pinpricks, and tried to scatter them across the ceiling in a pantomime of the summer stars, but that just left him feeling more trapped and miserable than usual.

Throughout it all, the connection between Marvolo and Harry hummed, strong and constant. When Harry despaired, it sang of comfort. When the dark smothered him, the lightest brush of an invisible hand down his back would slow his frantic breathing. Sometimes, when Harry drifted into that immaterial space between waking and sleep, they could speak. _Hold on_ , Marvolo told him again and again. His eyes glowed a luminous, slick-wet crimson suspended in the gloom. _Soon_. 

At his lowest point, towards the end of the first week when the house was quiet and Harry felt like he was the last living creature in the world, he wondered if this would be the end of it. Perhaps they would never let him out. The Dursleys might decide they could wash their own dishes and scrub their own bathrooms, thank you very much. It wouldn't take much, all his Aunt Petunia would have to do was conveniently forget to give him water for a few days. They didn't need him, not really, no one did, and if the voice in the back of his head hissed its disapproval of that sentiment, well, it was easy for Harry to block out. 

Harry tried to picture Hogwarts in his head. He knew so little about the place, really. Marvolo was a sleepy presence most of the time, his every word a significant effort to impart. There had been hints about the school in the tome on magical plants he had found at Mrs. Figg’s. Not much, just passing comments dropped about the greenhouses and the rare plants that could only be found in those magic-infused highlands. Harry knew there was a castle, hidden deep in the wilds of Scotland, knew that it was full of people like him. Wizards and witches. It was a school, a place of learning and peace, an escape, that welcomed all within its halls. Libraries, greenhouses, a forbidden forest and hidden passageways. It sounded amazing, magical… surreal. An illusion, a fantasy.

Lying in his squalid sheets, Harry stared up into the rotting wood panels and wondered. Was Hogwarts even real? Was he?

In the end, it took a week and a half before Aunt Petunia let him out. One morning she yanked the door to his cupboard open without fanfare and sneered, as Harry stumbled out, blinking at all the _light, colors, sounds_. 

"Go clean off your filth and then start on breakfast." Harry had never been happier to receive chores in his life.

He scrubbed himself down as fast as possible and dressed in his last set of clean clothes, hurrying back downstairs before his aunt could change her mind. It didn't take as much effort as usual this morning to appear shaken and cowed. As Harry cooked, plated, and cleaned, he could feel his uncle’s smug, self-satisfied gaze boring into his back. When Harry jumped as he shook out the morning paper with a loud rattle of leaves, Vernon let out a low, nasty chuckle. 

"I think I'll have another helping, Pet," he told Harry's aunt. "Have to fuel up for a big day!" Harry didn't make a sound as he scraped the meager remains that lingered in the pan onto the proffered plate, even though it meant he'd go without.

Hunger wouldn't kill him. Another week alone in the cupboard might. 

All day, Harry scrubbed, weeded, washed and mended under the watch of his aunt's gimlet eyes. He kept his gaze down and cringed dramatically whenever someone came too close. Though his wounds were long healed, washed away in the gentle tide of his magic, Harry made sure to limp when he walked and flinch whenever he had to handle something large or heavy. 

It had been a long time since his Uncle had raised his fists to him, but Harry knew the rules of this game. The more damaged, the more downtrodden he appeared, the less the Dursleys would think about him, too wrapped up in their victory. Ignore me, Harry chanted over and over in his mind, shoving his magic behind his intent as hard as he could. See how you've won, see how I've broken. Forget me.

At first, his efforts seemed to have little impact, but as days passed little by little the Dursley's vigilance began to wane. By the end of the week, life on Privet Drive returned to something akin to normal. Harry didn't dare try to sneak off to the library, but his aunt, at long last, left him to complete chores without her spiteful supervision. He was able to sneak a few things out of the pantry to restock his barren larder, and he was allowed to eat when the Dursleys did. Hunger faded into a clinging memory instead of remaining as his constant companion, and Harry began to relax.

Still, Harry didn’t start a new notebook.

On the night before his birthday, after Aunt Petunia had locked the door to his cupboard and retreated upstairs for the rest of the evening. Harry sat upright on his cot. His legs were crossed and his eyes were closed as he worked to slow his breathing and empty his mind. 

Meditation had never come easily to Harry. Marvolo had walked him through the basics in the liminal space between waking and dreams, but Harry had always struggled to sit still. His fingers would twitch, his legs would spasm, there would be a crick in his neck that needed crack or an itch on his nose that demanded scratching. When he could force his body to remain motionless, his mind would be jittery, unable to settle. Sometimes, Harry thought with exasperation, it felt like he was destined to vibrate apart.

Harry forced himself to slow his breathing, in and out, in and out, turning his focus inward to face the glowing warmth of his core. Tomorrow he would be eleven. Tomorrow, his letter would come, and his whole life would change with its arrival.

In the end, the delivery of his letter was anticlimactic. The pale parchment envelope inscribed with his name in vivid green ink slipped in with the daily post. Harry simply slid the letter under his closet door as he walked past and went about his day as if it were any other. When the day was finally over and the door to his cupboard had been bolted shut behind him, Harry collapsed on his cot. 

His hands trembled as all the anxiety and wondrous joy he had shoved into a corner of his mind came rushing back out, sluicing through his body like silvery water. It took him two goes of it to summon a dim light, his first try accidentally conjuring an illuminated sphere of such brilliance that Harry was still blinking away the spots from the attempt. Greedily, he read the labeling on the front of the parchment envelope again and again.

Mr. H. Potter,

The Cupboard under the Stairs,

4, Privet Drive,

Little Whinging,

Surrey

It was addressed to him, penned in an old-fashioned hand in metallic emerald-green ink. There was no denying this was for him, it even had his cupboard on it. That… bothered Harry, slightly, that someone knew about his cupboard. Resolutely, he boxed that thought up in the back of his mind before tearing the letter open. As he fanned the assorted pages across his lap, a scarlet and silver ticket tumbled out. Harry picked it up, running a tremulous finger across the embossed lettering.

LONDON to HOGWARTS

for ONE WAY travel

Platform 9 3/4

Departure date: September 1st

Only a month or so away. He was so close. 

Harry placed the ticket down on the bed at his side and began to read through his Hogwarts letter. On top there was a short segment informing him of his acceptance to the school, which Harry glanced at briefly before flipping to the next page. It contained a list of the things he'd require for his classes, and Harry tried not to worry about how or where he'd get them. Every time he'd asked Marvolo about it, he had simply sent a pulse of reassurance down their link. Maybe there was a scholarship he'd qualified for, Harry wondered, flipping back to the cover letter to read it in greater detail.

The strange name on the header made his brow furrow slightly as he read it. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin, Supreme Mug… what?

Harry choked on his next inhale, doubling over at the tightness of his lungs. Hatred pulsed in his chest, dripped thick and tar-like down the back of his throat and roared in his ears like some mad thing. It lasted only a handful of heartbeats before it tapered off into nothing, but Harry was still left reeling. Clutching the edges of his bed frame, he struggled to regain his breath.

"What the _hell_ ." He wheezed. "Marvolo?" Harry prodded at their connection like it was a sore tooth. Their link felt off, the normal ebb and flow of emotion restricted to a mere trickle. Harry could still taste the hate on his tongue, but there was more nuance to the emotion now. Regret, longing, resentment and, underneath it all, a sense of stubborn protectiveness. Shaken, Harry reached for the crumpled letter he had dropped. Bracing himself against the possible return of that emotional storm, he reread the absurd name and long list of titles. _Nothing_. When he focused, Harry thought he could feel the barrier between them vibrate like the wall of a house during a thunderstorm, but he couldn't reach the other side. 

What on earth had prompted that sort of reaction, he wondered bewilderedly, fingers tracing lightly across the smooth parchment. Harry wished more than ever that he could speak easily with Marvolo. A few words exchanged on the boundary of sleep wasn’t enough, Harry thought. He had so many questions and so few answers. 

Harry folded up the bedsheet and placed it to one side. Looking over the list of school supplies and the ticket, he discovered a fourth piece of parchment tacked to the back. A square the size of his hand, with a time and date on it. Turning it over, Harry saw a handwritten note scrawled on the back. Apparently, a teacher from the school would be coming to discuss the school and take him shopping in 'Diagon Alley'. That was welcome news. He wouldn’t know where Diagon Alley was nor how to get there on his own otherwise.

Harry flipped the page back over to stare at the date: August 7th, 10:00 AM. That was only a week away, a Wednesday, so his Uncle Vernon would be out of the house by the time his guide arrived. Harry could work with that. With one last tentative prodding at the numb bond in the back of his mind, Harry began to plot.

Harry worked hard to maintain his facade of meekness for the next week. He let Dudley push him around, diligently followed every instruction his Aunt snapped in his direction and didn't take off for his library even once despite the desperate yearning he felt for the peaceful sanctuary. Marvolo remained subdued, the connection between them quiet. 

Two days before the date specified in the letter arrived, he made a show of trudging into the house after working in the garden all afternoon. Pasting a reluctant and unhappy expression on his face, Harry went looking for his aunt. Finding her in the kitchen, he knocked on the wood of the door frame with one hand and hunched his shoulders.

"Mrs. Figg wanted to know if she could borrow me on Wednesday, Aunt Petunia." Harry told her, "She needs help spreading manure in her back garden."

His aunt sniffed, pursing her lips. "I don't know why she'd think you'd be any help, but I suppose we could spare you for the day." Aunt Petunia fixed Harry with a piercing glare. "You make sure to do everything she asks of you, I won't have you embarrassing us. Keep your," she waved a hand at him as if it encapsulated all that Harry was, expression pinching, "to yourself." 

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Harry agreed, keeping his eyes on the floor. One hurdle cleared. 

When the day arrived for Harry to go Hogwarts shopping, the morning began much like any other. Harry rolled out of bed, cooked breakfast and made sure to linger over washing the dishes until his Uncle Vernon had left for work. Dudley had wandered out shortly after, shouting about going to visit a friend, and Aunt Petunia had gone upstairs to, 'briefly rest her eyes,' as she did most days. Harry was careful to look dejected, cultivating an attitude that balanced dread and resignation in equal measure. 

Now, standing in front of Number Four, Privet Drive with the morning sun shining down upon him, Harry couldn't keep from beaming with joy. Soon, a teacher would be arriving to take him away from this dreary life to shop for his school things. He would get to see magic or, at the very least, meet another wizard. 

As Harry craned his neck to peer down the quiet, painfully boring street, he wondered how his guide would arrive. Did wizards use cars? He wasn't sure, but somehow, he had trouble picturing it. The only image that popped into his mind was that of a witch on a broomstick, like something out of a Halloween display, and Harry snorted a laugh. Although there had been a note on the page listing his supplies about broomsticks ‘not being allowed for first years’, the whole concept seemed strange to Harry. Arriving on a broomstick seemed unlikely… and inefficient.

Maybe a flying carpet?

Harry mused on the subject for a few minutes. After a while, with no one in sight and no clue as to when they'd arrive, he elected to sit down in the narrow shade of one of the bushes lining the sidewalk in front of the house. It was best to keep out of sight, just in case his Aunt Petunia woke up from her morning nap and happened to glance outside. 

Keeping one eye on the road, Harry pulled his knees up beneath his chin and continued to daydream. Perhaps the person picking him up would fly in on a dragon -- it didn't, he admitted regretfully, seem likely, but it was possible. Lots of the books he’d read had dragons in them and hadn't Marvolo mentioned them once? Harry was sure he had. Maybe--

"Mrow."

The quiet, pointed sound pulled Harry out of his trance. Sitting in front of him was a silver tabby cat, back straight and tail wrapped around its front paws. Splayed around its eyes were white markings similar in size and shape to a pair of spectacles, and the expression the feline wore could only be called cross. As Harry stared at the cat, the hair on his neck began to prickle. It gave him a look, then deliberately turned its head to glance around. The cat looked up the street, then looked down the street, then looked back at Harry as if waiting for him to do something.

"Hullo," he said cautiously. He was unwilling to blink in the face of such a direct stare. The gaze was unnervingly human, intelligent and unafraid, although Harry conceded after a moment's thought that such a look was fairly common for a cat. Mrs. Figg's cats also had that air of uncanny intelligence about them. Harry’s eyes widened behind his glasses as an idea occurred to him. "Are you… the one I'm waiting to meet?"

The cat did not reply.

He rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand, feeling a little silly. He was talking to cats now. After clearing his throat, Harry took a moment to look around. Most of the neighbors had already left for work, and the street was empty. Aunt Petunia was, as far as he could tell, still asleep (or at least not aware of what he was doing), and Dudley was nowhere in sight. It seemed safe enough. Shyly, Harry held out his hand for the cat to sniff. "Are you from Hogwarts?"

The tabby sniffed his hand politely, sneezed, and lashed its tail. It stood, arched its back, then turned in place. There was a quiet sound, and the cat seemed to stretch and blur, then---

Harry blinked, wondering at the expanse of black fabric and red striped tartan that had taken the place of the tabby. Or… wait. He scrambled to his feet, rocking back on his heels as he stared up at the tall, stern-faced lady in front of him. The woman stared back.

Her auburn hair was streaked with steel gray and pulled tightly back in a bun, but her face was surprisingly youthful despite the tiny lines that framed her mouth and feathered out around the corners of her eyes. Her clothing was, if Harry had to put a word on it, odd. It looked a bit like a layered dress, with a row of buttons marching up the front and a stiff collar around the neck. The fabric of the dress was thick and black, and, despite the blazing sun and the fact that it was the middle of August, she wore a loose tartan shawl that draped down her back. One long-fingered hand held a stick of elegantly tapered dark wood which she tapped lightly against one thigh. She surveyed his gaping face with the sort of affronted dignity that reminded Harry strongly of the cat she had recently been. Faded blue eyes flashed down at Harry as she inclined her head towards him with a small, surprisingly warm smile.

"Mr. Potter."

Harry jumped backward, nearly stumbling into the bush, then blushed heavily. He knew he had been staring, and he glanced down at the ground abashed. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could feel Marvolo laughing at him, but it was a quiet sort of amusement. Distant. Resolving to be as polite as he could be, Harry peeked back up at the woman in front of him from underneath his fringe. "Hullo," he said cautiously.

That seemed to be the right response because her small smile broadened, and she relaxed her stiff, upright stance a tad. "My name is Professor McGonagall." She flicked her wrist, and the stick she was holding in one hand zipped up her sleeve. Harry gaped again, before schooling his expression as best he could. Magic. Not a stick, then, but a wand. He couldn't stop the swell of glee that shook through his thin frame. Today, he would be getting one of his own.

"I teach transfiguration at Hogwarts." Professor McGonagall continued, her eyes crinkling in mirth as she took in his poorly concealed excitement. "It's wonderful to meet you, Harry. Shall we go in?" She gestured with one hand towards Number Four and Harry, unable to stop himself, blanched.

"Er," he stammered, tugging on the sleeve of his baggy shirt nervously. "Um. We don't have to." When her gaze sharpened, he quickly looked back down at the ground and blurted out, "They already know you're taking me. I told them all about it."

He hadn't, of course. There was no way the Dursleys would take the news of a magical school well. Harry wasn't going to tell them until it was absolutely necessary.

"They're, ah, not very interested in magic. Think it's rubbish." Harry chewed on his lip then dared a glance back up at her. "They've given me some money for transportation," he offered shyly, hoping that would help convince the professor. 

He'd spent the last two weeks collecting coins from beneath cushions and off the floor, trying to scrape together what he could. One evening he'd even been daring enough to sneak a crumpled pound note out of the bottom of Petunia's bag. So far, she hadn't noticed it was missing.

Professor McGonagall hummed, pressed her lips together in a thin line as she leveled a hard stare towards the house at his back. Harry held his breath, nervously twisting the frayed hem of his shirt around his fingers as he awaited her answer. After a long, tense moment, she relented with a slight sigh and a shake of her head.

"Well then, if you're ready to go," she told him gently, "take my hand."

Harry stared at her outstretched hand for a second, then hastily reached out and grabbed it before she could change her mind. It felt… nice. Staring up at his Professor, Harry wondered if this was what holding hands always felt like. When her fingers closed around his, it was unexpectedly anchoring. Despite his nervousness, he felt safe in a way he rarely did outside of his cupboard. 

Harry swallowed, glancing up and down the street. Now was not the time to get distracted. "How," he asked, "are we going to get there?" Where 'there' was, he wasn't entirely sure. His letter had mentioned Diagon Alley, but perhaps there were other places to shop? London was far away. He had heard his Uncle Vernon complain about the trip often enough.

"This would be your first time traveling like this, wouldn't it, " she muttered to herself. Straightening her shoulders, Professor McGonagall looked back down at her charge, meeting his gaze squarely. "We," she told Harry in a firm, no-nonsense sort of tone, "Are going to travel by apparition. Apparition," she continued, answering the question before Harry could do more than open his mouth to voice it, "is a type of magical teleportation. I will be the one casting the spell and guiding us, simply turn with me as I turn and you will be carried along with me. It will only take a moment."

She smiled again, a slightly wistful expression, and adjusted her glasses with one finger before leaning down to look Harry directly in the eyes. "You might find it slightly disorientating the first time,” she paused before admitting, “I did." Her confession done with, the professor straightened back up again and shook her wand out of her sleeve with a brisk, sure movement, clasping it loosely in her free hand. "Are you ready, Harry?"

Trembling with excitement, Harry didn't dare speak. He simply nodded. With one last glance around the quiet suburban street, Professor McGonagall turned on her heel and vanished with a loud, 'crack!', dragging Harry through space with her.

Whirling disorientation assaulted him, colors smearing across his vision as his ears rang with a cacophony of sound. Harry gasped and choked simultaneously. He couldn't draw a breath. It felt like his lungs were being squeezed into paste along with the rest of him, when suddenly---

Life. The chatter of London crowds and the smell of exhaust. Cars rattled by on the busy street in front of him and people strode by on the sidewalk just lengths away. No one turned to look at them though, and Harry gulped in air, grateful for the reprieve. He dropped his Professor's hand unthinkingly and stumbled back into a rough, brick wall. Rubbing his hands up and down his arms vigorously, Harry shuddered. 

"Disorientating," he croaked without pausing for thought, "is not the word I would have used."

Harry jumped in surprise as Professor McGonagall laughed, a surprisingly throaty sound that seemed to shock her as much as it had him. She brushed off the front of her dress and stepped past him, pausing in front of an aged wooden door set into the wall at his back. Grabbing the handle with one hand, she smiled down at her charge.

"Shall we?" Her voice was warmer than it had been on Privet Drive, and Harry relaxed. She wasn't mad at him for complaining. Despite Marvolo's reassurance flowing along the connection between them, Harry couldn't help but worry. Everything about today was new and overwhelming and so, so important. _Magic_ , he thought, squaring his own shoulders and attempting a hesitant smile in return. He would get to learn real magic. He could escape. That was worth anything, anything at all.

Doing his best to exude confidence, Harry followed Professor McGonagall into the building.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your comments, so please feel free to post!


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